So I love

And why I came here, this far?
Separated from you 
--and I miss you so much --
What was it
that gave me this
determination
before I could choose?

-- so painfully severed --

Like I wanted to be born
to just be left alone,
as if a child would refuse
being picked up to loving arms.

-- I would not resist when you touch me ---

Why am I bleeding,
why you have wounds?
Can I just give up
and let you eat me?
Would I then feel the love

-- I need it so much,
is that why I can't have it? --

So I love these scavengers,
pitch black ravens,
wolves at leisure,
-- maybe I can sleep
with a grizzly-bear
until the spring and ferocious
hunger --

the bottom feeders that come to me
when I dive all the way down

in the black water,
peat bog darkness,

like ancient ghosts
pickled in acids
waiting to be reborn
in stead of being
like sacks 
of mummified leather
holding brittle'd fibers
inside

too rigid to caress

I swear, they come to lick
my tears with tongues like tiger's

and in return I tattoo my name
on their lips
with infernal black ink,
my blood and marrow,
it is not decadent to swallow,
and wash down with ash-water

after we burned it all
and have nothing else left
but a scarred heart
and a freely squirming spine

ready to twist
as much as it takes
to do what needs to be done
for another day,

another life
in a future
that will remain
like tomorrow,
not yet here

but patiently waiting
the passing of these moments
and our duty to survive
to be passed on

under the same stars,
here, where talk of the devil
blends with the dust

moved with the wind
that grinds every crust
to the same shreds
that never stop moving.

Or do you have a passion
to stop it moving?
And if so, why is that?

Who are you, then, 
for that?

Why would you want to stop moving
-- so that the wind could take you?

Sad beyond reason
to refuse like that
and resist all but entropy.

Oh, shiver and flake
off and out
casually with the bites of time.

Sent that wish
to have at least been
against merciless odds
for a moment defiant


but sure to give up,
let go and release
the remains
back to the world.

(Even the body was never mine.)

black flag

a flag is an exclamation,

a banner for a manifestation

under which we stand

to manifest

nihil imperat

but out of necessity

we adapt

like water

as set by nature

it runs

and we write

with water

died black

with the pigments

of ink

so that our words

would stay on paper

stating our story
(not his nor her)

sinking to the past,

slightly slower than castles in the sand,

but we are here by an equal right

to construct at will,

each our own,

human together

like our consciousness,

a collective

and it is as by heart

as it is rational

that we come to common cause

from nihil,

pudenda origo,

for those who thought that

going towards god is going as far from the world

and its organic body as possible

and into the abstract dream at the end of history,

well, our flag proclaims freedom from you,

and it is black, because you said white

is supreme.

(c. another great pic by Asta Kaluževičiūtė)

Vox Clamantis In Deserto

How important it is to know you are not alone? I can tell you: very. In the solitude you slowly shed your humanity, I know this, become an animal ready to run at sight of those apex predator beasts that you just alienated yourself from. The willful exile, they call it, the punishment for being the insolent that trespassed, yes, and stumbled on some things that touched you somewhere so deep you'd rather forget such stigma, hold on to your purity and innocence rather than integrity, because everyone you touch with this black acid will tell you, you did this to yourself. If not already contaminated by original sin, you can't just say you were innocent to begin with. Well, they also say you must suffer to be an artist... "Art, Camus claims, is not owned by the privileged, and a literature that encompasses everyone is a stronger art. `In the face of so much suffering, if art insists on being a luxury, it will also be a lie,´ he said. He continued that `if there is any man who has no right to solitude, it is the artist. Art cannot be a monologue… Art advances between two chasms, which are frivolity and propaganda.´ Towards the end, Camus noted that `all greatness, after all, is rooted in risk. The time of irresponsible artists is over.´ In a line that has stayed with me, Camus cuts to the core of what great art must aim for, regardless of its author or ken: `[t]he aim of art… is not to legislate or to reign supreme, but rather to understand first of all.´ Art does not seek to dictate the rigid laws of a society; instead, it must seek to try to capture something true about the world it conjures up. Camus goes on to condemn art crafted purely out of hate. We must do the opposite of hatred, which, as I said after Trump’s election, is not love, but empathy, understanding." (This is from an outstanding literary essay by Gabrielle Bellot: On Danticat, Camus, and the Art of Exile)

Yeah, it is not a fucking luxury to write yourself a sentence that condemns you to an absurd isolation you can't talk about without sounding fucking crazy. Yes, maybe a bit tongue in cheek, biting it to forget the pain you are about to inflict on yourself as you describe the way to reach the absurd desert integrity will lead you if you don't fucking submit... It is fucking selfish, you understand, to ask for the poison that ends it, now hand it to me, I want nobody to follow, I don't want to map this pain, to continue the melodrama of a drunken lunatic howling, the vox clamantis in deserto. And just like that the circle is closed, the ascension led back to where you started; the hysterical animal at the mercy of nature.

Maybe you learned something, you became an altered animal, one with a sense of self, of trajectory, a purpose as long as you can live with the pain, and don't succumb to fear knowing that the dangers are real out there in the open and you go naked.

(Pic by Asta Kaluževičiūtė)

What comes after Capitalism/Post-modernity?

This is a quick piece written after a Bloomberg Opinion article gave me inspiration enough to rise from the hangover that probably immobilizes most after hard parties of the New Year: What comes after Capitalism? "Beginning with the breakup of the Hapsburg Empire, Slobodian’s lucidly written intellectual history traces the ideas of a group of Western thinkers who sought to create, against a backdrop of anarchy, globally applicable economic rules. Their attempt, it turns out, succeeded all too well in our own time. We stand in the ruins of their project, confronting political, economic and environmental crises of unprecedented scale and size." So it is quite right, and just the right time, to ask what comes after Capitaism, as Capitalism wasn't the end of history after all, but another condition that precipitates a change accordingly, and Capitalism was accompanied with the philosophy of Post-modernism, both offering the same de-constructive iconoclasm, "fall of meaning" as William S. Burroughs called it, (symbols fall like dead leaves on the streets, smell of burnt film in the air) and nobody seemed to see a way out of it. Well, we fucking see what we want when the push comes to shove, and we find a way out when it comes to survival, and that way is the way of incredulity, Nihilism, diligent and meticulous scientific reasoning that tells us the only way out of this existential crisis is to let the idols fall and trust no image, because the image was clearly false. Time goes on, we evolve, and now is the time to not believe in invisible hands guiding the markets for greater good; there are no such things. For everyone alone taking up the system is too much, and if we can trust something, we can trust the pressing need to survive, that forced the ancient people in primitive (anarchistic) societies to cooperate.

(The Troll that wonders how old he is by Kittelsen)

And remember, nihilism isn't about hopeless pessimism either, when understood correctly this fundamental distrust in myths and besserwissers who claim to know all for everyone is based in scientific rationality, and the scientific uncertainty principle is all encompassing. It gives us radical optimism on the darkest hours just before midnight; we don't know that all hope is gone either. Political Nihilism is not business as usual, it is a practical philosophy much like that of Spinoza's, and guided by cynicism, like dogs, we will bite the feeding hand if it delivers poison, and become wild and ungovernable to be free and open for a new future we make for ourselves.

Pirate song, but I must ask, what's wrong in fucking around if you don't break families and use a condom? And Pirates under the black flag were freedom fighters, yes? All for a better more free social organization. There's a Ghost of Chance (book by William S. Burroughs) that it works and we can high-jack the system and change it to make it ours.
Fleurety: Animal of the City

Quote the Maestro

“The white cat symbolizes the silvery moon prying into corners and cleansing the sky for the day to follow. The white cat is "the cleaner" or "the animal that cleans itself," described by the Sanskrit word Margaras, which means "the hunter who follows the track; the investigator; the skip tracer." The white cat is the hunter and the killer, his path lighted by the silvery moon. All dark, hidden places and beings are revealed in that inexorably gentle light. You can't shake your white cat because your white cat is you. You can't hide from your white cat because your white cat hides with you.” 
― William S. Burroughs, The Cat Inside

Grey

Grey is the color of mercy,
black and white is too judgmental,
this we need to understand,
and tone down from extreme polarity.

The pure white, is too strong,
nobody is perfect.

All black is too dark,
there is no absolute evil.

Always already mixed,
like all the colors of the rainbow,
that are there in the white light.

You just can't see it,
until you use the prism
to see, that this is how it is.

I have seen so many rainbows
that I believe this to be a fact.